4b: Reconcile
by windwraith
Summary: The royal twins, Louis and Phileppe, face the rebellion known as the fronde of princes. D'Artagnan Sr. and Aramis are at each others throats and trouble lies in wait for Ramon and his friends, what more can go wrong? Part 4B of the YB 'Unleashed Saga'
1. Battle Array

Disclaimer:

Recognizable characters you find here-in I do not seek to claim.

I write for enjoyment alone and no form of monetary gain.

Much actual history you may find reflected in this prose.

Though I have altered situations and timeline as the need arose.

Reconcile: Part II

Prologue: Battle Array

Never had there been such an historic meeting; the free blade-bound were assembled and Siroc could not have absented himself had he wanted to. The King's call was compelling but not in the same fashion that his former master had used to summon him to report. The blond inventor felt invigorated—eager, confidant, alive…almost frisky—like a stallion trying to catch the wind. The master's call had been humiliating and painful, but this one was full of promise as if the pounding of his heart urged him onward to find the true home and family he had yearned for but never known.

The blond musketeer surveyed the open field where guards from across the kingdom had assembled in accord with the royal command to pledge their loyalty and fight in defense of the crown. Pennants flapped in the fitful breeze, delineating the battle array into its component parts: yellow, brown, crimson, purple, orange and green. Years ago Cavalier Rocheford, who had been Richelieu's Chosen, had helped Siroc win freedom from his master's power. Cavalier told the young musketeer of others like himself—his cousins. Each one had been called into being as a living weapon or shaped by other specifications of the Master of the Dark Tabernacle. Siroc himself had been a product of those same unnatural forces. Though in his case, Mazarin, rather than Richelieu, had been the one to wield them.

The dark cavalier had failed to mention that the cousins—Amber, Tan, Red, Violet, Rust and Jade—each captained a substantial force of blade-bound warriors. These armies remained hidden when their creator met his end. Many had taken refuge within other branches of service rather than suicide as their master had intended. Blade-bound were made to serve, but Chosen had said they made what lives they could for themselves till the time had come for them to do what they had been designed for. Even so, he had neglected to say exactly what that entailed. Siroc could not help but be impressed by scope of it all. Prince le Condé and his Bourbon troops could not hope stand against warriors such as these.

"Siroc!" Emris de Ruse called and motioned for the young musketeer to join him on the rise where the 'king' had addressed the troops the night before. The blond went straight away to meet with the legendary ex-musketeer who had been called Aramis. "Let me introduce you to Elisa Rivére and the twins, Shoal and Torrent."

Siroc had seen enough of the salute of the blade-bound made to mimic the sign; he bowed his head, and his arms crossed at the wrist, fists clenched, lying on his breast. The three-some in grey smiled and returned the gesture. Siroc, like the rest of his blade-bound kin, had difficulty forgetting things unless he was told to do so by one in authority over him. His near genius intellect had been trained to recall minute details with speed and precision. And so it was that although he had never met the three, their names had meaning for him.

"Rivéré…Twins…you three were among Chosen's Black guard till you were assigned to his chief rival, yes?"

"Indeed Cousin, the Chancellor is my husband and my brother's command his White Guard." The statuesque woman motioned to a white pennant nearby and a contingent of near seventy guardsmen assembled nearby.

Siroc could not help but smile to himself…for all his faults, Richelieu must have been fond of irony. The Chosen and the Chancellor had been created as equals and rivals. Their respective guards wore doublets of Black and White. But these three, transferred from one unit to the other, had not lost their identity and had chosen to wear grey. This had been the necessary impetus for the two high-commanders of the blade-bound to settle their differences and make peace. If only they could somehow convince the legends, d'Artagnan Senior and Aramis to do likewise. Siroc cast a side-long glance at the ex-musketeer and extended his hand to the cousins in greeting. "Well met," he said.

Lady Elisa grasped the young musketeer's hand firmly. The muscles of her forearm bulged slightly, betraying her intimate familiarity with a rapier. Though dressed in a dove grey sideless surcoate over a darker grey cotehardie, there was no denying she was as much a warrior as her brothers were. Siroc could not help wonder what Jacqueline would think to know she was only one of several blade-women in this notable assemblage. Just then two small boys in matching grey doublets broke from the ranks of white guard and bolted over to the group. Like mirror images the twins bent to catch hold of an equally identical youngster, "Our little twins—" Shoal explained, balancing his boy in his right shoulder.

"—Spring and Colt" Torrent introduced, having swept the other boy on to his left shoulder.

"Nice to meet you," Siroc told the sturdy four-year-olds who, regardless of their precarious perch, crossed their arms and nodded in salute as solemnly as the other blade-bound did. Siroc had heard about these little ones as well—the children of two blade-bound parents, touched by virtue of birth with some of the same characteristics that made blade-bound unique from other men. But unlike the rest, they had been born of woman and nurtured in an environment of love, raised by the twins, free from control of the dark order. Spring and Colt were the embodiment of the hope that each member of this assembly shared. In the wake of Richileu's demise, they had been born free, and that freedom was what the blade-bound had come to value more than life itself.

---------------------------------

Not far away another set of twins, namely Louis and Philippe, lounged about on cushions in the royal pavilion. Cavalier Ford de la Roche, 'Rocheford the Masters Chosen'; Chancellor Michael Pace, 'Pike, The Master's Gift' and Lady Elizabeth Chet, 'The Protector Richelieu's Rightful Heir,' sat with their heads together in conference with the two young royals.

"So, now that we have called you up, what are we to do next?" Louis asked, toying with the golden curls of his wig. An uninitiated person would have suspected the young king of employing i '_the royal we,_' /i but these were among the select few who knew the twins ruled jointly, switching places when situation dictated. So far the deception had been an amazing success. The soldiers were awed at the young king's fortitude, riding among the troops, conferring with the captains, making a thorough accounting of weapons equipment and supplies, and ensuring that each soldier was fully equipped for the coming conflict with his cousins, the rebellious Bourbon princes. One would suspect it was too much for a grown man, let alone a half-grown boy, king or no. But two identical kings were more than adequate to maintain morale in a company such as this. And being young, they were not above requesting advice from those more experienced then themselves.

"We move first to secure the capital. Captain Duval has volunteered to lead a combined force composed of half your musketeers and half of Queen's Swiss Guard. They already accompany the queen to Saint Germaine. Once there they will assemble the court and will hold the capital when we have dealt with the opposition and are ready to pursue Condé's forces to Anjou. De Batz d'Artagnan will be in charge of the remainder of the regular forces who have agreed to take to the field alongside the blade-bound," the bronze-haired lady, Protector, explained. She had served among the musketeers in her youth and was familiar with both captains so it had not been difficult to work out the details between them.

"Lepont, la Cruz, young d'Artagnan, and Siroc are among those who stay with us, are they not?" Prince Philippe asked. Incase any should overhear, he was careful to modulate his voice so that it seemed softer and more breathy that his 'esteemed elder brother.' To the casual observer the dower prince seemed both younger and frailer than his dazzling sibling. It was a façade of course, made all the more believable through the use of a dark wig, less make up and a more subdued wardrobe. Philippe was new to court and none of the courtiers had thought any-thing out of the ordinary when they were told he was a year younger than the king.

Protector nodded. "Yes Monsieur, the Medic had cleared Ramón to accompany us and Cavalier and I have both promised Duval we would keep an eye on them."

"Not Captain De Batz?" the king inquired quizzically. He had been sure the legendary d'Artagnan would be the one who would be keen to see how well his son and the other young cadets acquitted themselves in battle.

"D'Artagnan senior and his men have requested the privilege of guarding your person, your majesty, rather than participating in the actual battle," Chosen pointed out. The dark-eyed man was reluctant to meet the gaze of the young king and distractedly smoothed the wrinkles in his ebony doublet as he spoke.

"But we want to fight…I am a very good shot." Louis almost whined petulantly, despairing at the thought of being made to simply watch the fighting from a nearby hillside. He wanted to ride into battle along side his men. It was only fair he'd be subject to the same risks as they. He should have realized that in modern 16th century warfare, kings no longer did that sort of thing. Dressed as Philippe he might lead armies one day, as Henry III did, but in his own persona that wasn't very likely.

Protector placed a hand gently on his shoulder. "Your bravery is not in question Louis. You were not bred for war as we were," she told him gently. "De Batz wants to see you safe; he promised your mother you were not to be placed in any imminent danger. Don't make a liar of him."

"Then what am I here for?!" Louis demanded, crossing his arms in frustration.

The Chancellor ran his fingers through his sandy hair. "Your presence gives us heart, majesty. The fact that you value our lives is more than many of the blade-bound have dared dream. We will spend our lives dearly, fulfilling the destiny carved for us long ago. But if you are taken…All is lost."

"Remember, Louis," Protector told the boy carefully, "the king embodies the hopes of his people. You are the greatest national treasure. We are fighting because your cousins make war, not against you, but against all of France. A king must do what is necessary to protect his people. And it is our fate to protect you."

Louis sighed. And in the same breath, so did Philippe. Both boys knew it was useless to argue. The bronze-haired Athena did not often come to the capital, but when she did, even mother showed deference to Protector. Louis thought it odd enough to have asked Captain de Batz why everyone, himself included deferred to the woman who had no official rank or standing. The legend had said, "Protector is as close to a force of nature as you are likely to meet. It is good to be mindful of her." Philippe asked the queen herself the same question. She replied, "These are not things to be spoken of, dear one, but we owe her our lives…and more. Let it be." And he had. But such cryptic statements did not keep either brother from wondering about the mysterious female commander of the blade-bound.

Philippe could not help but ask. "Is de Batz protecting us from the rebellious nobles, their hired soldiers…or from Emris…and the rest of you?"

The black clad Cavalier laughed outright. "Probably all of the above lad. And I don't particularly blame the man. But you have nothing to fear from us."

The chancellor was not acquainted with Emris or the legendary d'Artagnan, while Chosen had served as a spy among the musketeer during those days. During the same period, Gift had been closeted away managing Richelieu's country villa and a contingent of blade-bound, held in reserve till his master should need him. Though the chancellor had more authority, he had also had considerably less freedom. And as a result, he was less acquainted with the outside world. What the Cavalier implied almost seemed sacrilegious to him. "We are yours to command!" he told the young king ardently.

----------------------------------------


	2. Laws of Attraction

Chapter One: Laws of Attraction

Charles de Batz, the senior d'Artagnan, stood at the head of the rise a long while he watching as the queen's entourage diminished in the distance. Duval and his men were barely a smudge on the horizon, soon to be swallowed by forest, but still he stood watching…wishing he were beside her yet. The captain could still feel Anne's lingering touch on his arm, and he could still detect the subtle fragrance of her perfume in the air. He closed his eyes and latched on to the memory of her final words to him. "Protect our boys," she told him in a hushed whisper. She leaned so close he could feel her breath on his neck.

Even after so many years, his heart still quickened within him. Oh, how he longed to take her in his arms. But he was no longer a reckless recruit, and Anne was not a hand-maiden…able to sneak away from court to take a tumble in some secluded hayloft. She was queen, and he was the captain of her guard. It was enough that she entrusted him with the one thing more valuable than her virtue—her children. "Our Boys," she had said, tears glistening in the corners of her eyes. How he wished it were true! His son, d'Artagnan, was not too old to want a mother, and Louis and the other boy needed a father just the same. Life would be so simple if a crown were not tangled in the mix. One does not risk destroying a nation over a single wondrous night spent in each other's arms. Charles' breath caught in his throat; for all his boasts, he was a pig-farmer's son, and he had no business even imagining such things.

As if summoned by his father's musings, d'Artagnan, the younger, approached from the tent village below. "Father," the musketeer began, "word has come that the Bourbons are in Paris. The king has agreed we are to drive them from the city and harry them into the midlands. The king expects them to attempt to take refuge with his uncle in Anjou, where we can lay siege on the city and prevent them from laying waste the countryside."

It was a veiled comment. Charles was well aware that any such 'intelligence' was the product of that scheming Emris's spy network…Still, his son was polite enough not to remind him of the fact…and for that, the man was grateful. In fact, he was a bit surprised by how savvy the boy's pronouncement had been, making sure that he knew the order had come directly from the king and from no other. Dart left him no cause to find fault with the source. His son was becoming quite a diplomat…Still, the captain regretted the necessity that made d'Artagnan dance about so. "I'll be down shortly." He told the young musketeer and left it at that.

------------------------------------ 

Amid a teeming sea of military discipline that was the focus of the life of the blade-bound was a simple blue and white pavilion. This unremarkable cloth shelter served as base camp to four young musketeers. D'Artagnan was frowning when he returned to his companions Jacques Lepont and Ramón De la Cruz lounging outside the tent. Siroc was apparently elsewhere. "Any improvement?" Ramón asked; referring to the young man's assessment of his legendary father's current mental state.

"No, he is just as prickly as ever." D'Artagnan sighed. "I'm afraid I don't have much hope that he'll just sit down with Uncle Emris and talk things out." The dark-haired young man flopped down on the grass beside his friends. Thoughtlessly he remarked, "This stress between them is just torture."

The Spanish musketeer winced at the word 'torture.' Physically, he had almost completely recovered from his sojourn in the depths of Mazarin's dark citadel. Even so, memories of the horror of that place still haunted his waking dreams. Jacques Lepont, now known to her companions as the fugitive Jacqueline, stretched out her hand and squeezed Ramón's in wordless reassurance. And he returned the gesture with a smile, confidant he was not alone. They had not left him in that place and now he was free once more. Even better, the once powerful cardinal, last they had heard, was running for safety somewhere in Austria.

Just then Siroc strode up with a noticeable spring in his step. His companions knew this was a clear indication that the usually taciturn inventor had come close to uncovering something he considered particularly groundbreaking. "Guess what…" he began.

"Siroc, just tell us," d'Artagnan teased the blond gently. "You know very well we mere mortals are quite incapable of matching your superior intellect." It was his way of proving that their situation would not become like that of his father and Emris.

Ramón and Jacques shared a private smile with their blond friend. Nothing would come between the four young musketeers, least of all their companion's origins. After all, at present, they were the minority, not Siroc.

"Very well," the inventor said with a long-suffering sigh that was pure affectation. He knelt before them and placed a small chess board on the ground and then removed two small horseshoes from his belt pouch.

"Those must be from a very small horse my friend." Ramón observed, noting each one was no more than the length of his fore-finger and just about as thick.

"Just watch…" the blond musketeer told his friends. "D'Artagnan, this one is your father—" he indicated to one metal 'U' "—and this one is Emris." he indicated the other. He positioned the shapes so that the open ends faced each other. Slowly, he nudged the 'Emris' horseshoe toward the other, and the other figure inexplicably slid away. The inventor then tried to push the 'U' representing 'de Batz' toward the first, and again the metal seemed to recoil from contact. "You try," the inventor challenged.

The Spaniard went first, attempt to use both hands to try to encourage the ends to meet. But they would not; each repelled the other. "It is Magic," Ramón gasped astonished at the trick. "How does it do that?"

"It is not magic…I kept them in the same pouch as my loadstone and now they exhibit the same properties," Siroc said flipping one of the metal pieces end-over-end, and immediately, the two objects connected securely as if of their own accord.

"Amazing!" Jacques grinned and found that, once joined, it was equally difficult to pull the two pieces apart again.

"What do you think?" Siroc asked, gazing expectantly through his long bangs.

"Very pretty demonstration, Siroc," d'Artagnan said slowly. "But I don't see what good it will do us. Unless you intend to turn my father on his head…and I don't think that is likely to improve his mood."


	3. Exemplars of a Noble Spirit

Chapter Two: Exemplars of a Noble Spirit

Louis reined his prancing stallion at the head of the mighty army of blade-bound that wound its way through the French countryside. It took a few moments for de Batz to notice that the young monarch had stopped. By the time the stalwart Captain did so, the young monarch had already turned his beast and darted, unescorted back into the ranks. Louis may not have been a brilliant strategist or a blooded general, but he had a good eye for faces, and he had seen one he had recognized…one that should not have been there. "Ho there, Henri de La Tour!" the young king called into a knot of guardsmen dressed in tunics of violet and white. Last he had heard, the Vicomte de Turenne fought alongside Condé, and had commanded the French forces in his stead on at least three separate occasions. In fact he had been among the first Captain de Batz named as possible accomplices in the first fronde. Henri was a genius when it came to strategy, and a fit match for the Great Condé. Though, unlike the Bourbon Prince, Henri de La Tour showed great tact and firmness in his treatment of his regiments, often succeeding in restoring order with little bloodshed. La Tour was listed among the enemies of the crown because of his alliance with the rebel princes, but apparently his loyalty had shifted when the blade-bound were called up.

Henri had hoped to blend in with the other soldiers, but now, it appeared that was not to be. The aged general humbly approached his king and knelt, arms crossed on his breast and head bowed as one on the executioner's block. The man idly examined the blade that hung by Louis' side. The weapon was ornate but more than adequate to wrest his head from his shoulders. Blade-bound are made to serve…without question...but not without regret. Henri had relished the opportunity to finally serve a worthy master his rightful King. If his death would accomplish that goal then he was content to meet his end in this way.

Louis threw his leg over his horse's side and slid nimbly down the beast's flank with the agility of one who had been an equestrian since before he could walk. "When were you made blade-bound?" Louis asked the man quietly.

"I-I w-was eleven, M-majesty; when my F-father died, the M-master m-made a p-project of me," the noble stammered. Louis knew the general had practiced long and hard to overcome his slight speech impediment. That it would resurface now in such predominance was a testament to the emotion that sought to overcome the man.

"You have pledged yourself to me?" the young king asked, setting his gauntleted hand on the noble's shoulder.

"Unto death," the general affirmed ardently, without the least stutter. "I was the one responsible for converting your uncle to the prince's cause…I am unworthy of being counted among this host. I die with out honor."

"Then live, General. Live and take back your honor, by force if necessary. Your knowledge of military history is well known and will be a valuable asset. If you have any military suggestions do not refrain from seeking me out or one of the commanders. I want you to live a long time." Louis cast his gaze around at the other violet clad guards. Now that he studied them closely he realized he recognized more than a few of the men. He had not at first because he was more accustomed to seeing them wearing the cardinal's red. Here they stood, Mazarin's missing guards. Louis made eye contact with each one and accepted the undisguised fervor of the blade-bound burning in them. Their loyalty was beyond question. "Use what skills you have without fear—see that these others do like-wise. I am proud to have you men fighting under my banner," he told them, and then easily swung himself back in the saddle to rejoin his bodyguards at the head of the parade. As he was riding away he heard one of the men say to another, "That is OUR king!" And for the first time, Louie felt proud that it was so.

----------------------

Emris and Philippe rode considerably farther back in the column. For all anyone knew the somber prince was not the horseman as his brother was. Even so, he could manage the docile brown mare, Buttercup, easily enough. "What really happened between you and de Batz?" the young prince asked his mentor…and savior. But for Emris, Philippe would likely still be imprisoned and locked away behind a mask of leather and steel, not riding beside the most extraordinary war-host the world had ever seen.

The legendary ex-musketeer shook his head sadly. "I lied about my past…betrayed…and nearly killed him. That is not exactly something a friendship can survive."

Philippe frowned. "Emris, you, the queen and my keepers are the only people alive that knew of my existence for much of my life. I was betrayed, lied to and often wished I could die. Since coming to the capital, I have studied. Did you know that my royal grandfather, Henry IV, king of France and Navarre, was beaten everyday, well into his majority? He was a king and a general, but still was subjected to the same torment as I. It was thought such an education would make him strong and keep him humble. I am not saying what was done to either of us was right, and Louis would never permit such treatment to continue. But that period of my life is over. I harbor no ill will against anyone for my treatment. Some of the men who imprisoned me are even now among this host. I know now they had no choice but to obey the orders they had been given. Just as you had no choice but to do as your master bid you. I forgave them…I forgive you. I am free because of that. I want you to be free too."

"From the mouth of babes," Emris whispered, nudging his horse closer to Buttercup so he could pat the prince's knee. "You are gracious and noble, my young lord. Few would be as understanding. People may call us 'legends' but we are just men…sometimes small minded and capable of making grave mistakes."

The prince raised an eyebrow. "I may have been sheltered much of my life Emris, but it is my understanding that EVERYONE makes mistakes. Don't be so hard on yourself."

After that they rode in silence for quite a while, each pondering what the other had said.


	4. Dawning of the Sun King

Chapter Three: Dawning of the Sun king

The royal army moved freely about the countryside. The villagers turned out in droves, in hopes of catching a glimpse of their newly crowned king. The rebel Bourbons fled Paris as soon as they received word of the approaching army and the capital was retaken without a shot. By in large the population went to great lengths to prove that they were done with rebellion and that the princes were not acting in accord with the will of the people. As soon as Duval's forces returned from Saint Germaine with the court, the majority of the blade-bound army made ready to continue their journey to the southlands.

------------------------------

"What do you think of it all Sirrah?" the captain of the violet forces asked, breathlessly surveying the now peaceful capital. As a slave, Siroc had known the man as Lieutenant Malcolm de Leon, of the Cardinal's Guards. But since the Lieutenant had gone against his former master's orders to help the young musketeers save Ramón from the dark lord's Citadel, Malcolm had literally "turned his coat," becoming once again Valerian, the blade-bound violet cousin. Now he led others with the courage to renounce their pervious allegiance to flock to the king's banner when the blade-bound were called into play.

"Truthfully," Siroc told his former trainer, "I'm a bit concerned at how easily we took the capital. I expect Condé and his mercenaries will fortify one of the southern cities and we'll have to lay siege to drive them out."

"Couldn't you think of a way to undermine the wall or crush the gate or some other tremendous weapon to level the playing field?" the captain of the former enemy forces asked.

The genius frowned and shook his head. "I could…but I won't. Mazarin once forced me to build such a weapon and I nearly got my friends killed because of it. Such knowledge gets out of hand much too easily. I will not be responsible for letting such horror loose on the world."

"I suppose you are correct…I was called into being as a soldier. We value expedience. You were created as a visionary. Far be it from me to question the validity of your vision."

Siroc smiled. In the darkest part of his life this man had been his companion as well as his guard. It was good to be on the same side, supporting the legitimate king. "You trust my vision. I trust your strong arm, reflexes and courage. Together we will fall on the bourbon princes and restore peace once more."

"The reign of the Sun King dawns, let all the world bask in its splendor!" the captain announced. Enthusiastically, the word spread across the camp and from that time to this, Louis XIV was popularly known as the Sun King.

Louis took the field with his spectacular 'Royal Army' and pursued Condé's forces into Burgandy, a province long considered to be a holding of the Condé family. But the king could allow such a man no place of safety. The prince's men entrenched themselves in the town of Bellgarde. Louis tried to force open conflict with his cousin, surrounding the town to contain the rebellion, where it could not continue to poison the rest of the country. He disliked harrying the defiant nobles like woodland creatures, but except for several small skirmishes their quarry refused to meet them on the field of honor in civilized combat.

Even the people of Bellgarde cheered the arrival of their king from the battlements. 'Will they never stand and fight?' Louis wondered in that serious, grown-up way of his. The cheers seemed genuine; the people knew what it was to live under Condé's shadow and saw the king as their liberator. Still, the gates were closed and the rebels hid among the rest.

Brother Philippe knew the value of psychological warfare. "They are trying to make us reluctant to fight. We must turn the tables. Be bold. Show them our might. Show them we aren't afraid to rout the traitors out." It seemed like sound advice. Louis arrayed the mighty army, rank and file, in a grand review. Proudly, he marched before them, trailed by a knot of De Batz's guards.

The people cheered louder than ever. Then suddenly, musket fire rang out from the battlements and a young guard fell dead, almost at the king's feet. The other guards closed ranks around the young monarch, immediately spiriting him out of danger. But it was not so quick that he failed to notice the crowd on the wall turn ugly. They identified the sharpshooter, and tore him to bits.

The gates opened shortly thereafter and the town was theirs. But the first casualty had fallen and nothing could give that young man his life back. Louis was deeply affected and stayed to the tent for the next few days while his brother wore the crown in his stead.

Jacques Lepont was strolling past the royal encampment one evening and heard quiet sobs coming from within. Seeing that no one else patrolled nearby—as 'the king' was in the middle of a war council with the various captains—the female musketeer slipped around and entered the tent. The queen's first born son sat cross-legged in a nest of satin pillows, tears running down his flushed cheeks. Seeing Lepont, he hastily tried to wipe them away, but more replaced them.

"Majesty, the city is ours. Why do you cry?" She approached, concern in her eyes.

"Please tell no one about this." He sniffed. "I will not always be a child."

"Be easy Louis, even the heart of a king can ache. Those Bourbon rascals will be dealt with, I assure you." She attempted to comfort the young man without revealing how he brought out her maternal instincts and thereby giving away her disguise. But the king did something altogether unexpected.

As she knelt nearby he lunged at her, wrapping his arms around her waist and surrendering to tears once more. "How many more will die in the meantime?" he sobbed. "You? D'Artagnan? De Batz? My brother? I have met so many of those who would willingly give their lives for me…and I do not want to lose a single one."

The female musketeer did her best to make herself comfortable and gently rubbed Louis' back as if he were the child he claimed to be. But his words revealed more of the man he would one day become. "Shhh, it's all right," she crooned and made those small comforting noises that somehow ease a wounded soul. She toyed with his short cropped hair, bereft of its royal wig. This was Lew laid bare. She had only seen him this vulnerable once before, when the people ransacked his sleeping chambers. But then it had been his brother that he had clung too and wept upon.

This incident, as did the other, would leave its mark on this young man. She hoped it would make him a better king and not drive him to build a wall around his heart. She knew too well what it was to keep people from getting too close because of your fear of losing them. In truth, that was one of the reasons she had not yet told d'Artagnan how she felt about him. A soldier's life was just too precarious. One stray musket ball or a lucky sword thrust was all it took to shatter her world again.

In time the young king ran out of tears and slept peacefully in her lap. It was rather late when Philippe returned from the meeting. The torches were lit outside, but only diffused light leaked through the tightly knit fabric of the tent. The prince entered quietly, expecting his brother was already asleep and began to strip off his kingly raiment before noticing the musketeer.

The likeness the two brothers bore to one another once the disguise was stripped away was uncanny. Then, the prince had his blouse off revealing several deep scars marking his back and shoulder blades—souvenirs from his years of imprisonment. Jacqueline cleared her throat before he could begin unlacing his trousers as well.

The prince caught his breath with a start, "Sorry, I didn't know he had company." Philippe faltered, not exactly sure how to interpret what he was seeing. No denying, private Lepont was one of the few who shared their complete confidence. He knew his brother was fond of the musketeer, but hadn't thought things had gotten quite this far. After all, Philippe figured Jacques and d'Artagnan a more likely pair. Some time ago he had even placed a surreptitious wager with private de la Cruz to that effect. "S-should I go?" the young prince faltered uneasily.

Jacqueline shook her head, wanting to put the record straight right away. "He was upset, nothing more. I happened by and didn't think he should be alone," she explained carefully. "Now that you are here, I can go. But I don't want to wake him."

Philippe breathed a sigh of relief. Rumors were one thing; reality was quite another. "Once he is well and truly asleep my brother does not wake easily. Just give him a shove and he will roll right over." The prince gave her an impish grin. "I rolled him right out of bed one night and he barely stirred."

The young musketeer was hesitant but found Philippe was entirely correct. She carefully disentangled herself from the sleeping monarch with a little help from his brother and dusted herself off, smoothing her doublet as she did so.

"Humph." Philippe snorted suddenly.

"What is it?" she asked.

"Does he know you are a woman?" The ever observant prince asked.

"What?" Jacqueline gulped, surprised how anyone could notice such a thing in the half-light.

"Don't worry; I do not care about such things. I will not say anything… But you had best go. I expect d'Artagnan is wondering what is keeping you." He grinned, at the expression on her face at the mere mention of the legend's son and was already looking forward to the love poem he was going to get Ramón to write for him as payment for winning their wager.


	5. Battle Fray

Chapter Four: Battle Fray

When morning came the column was on the move again. Emris' spy network had located Condé and his men north of the Loire in a town called Bléneau. Henri de La Tour led a unit of former Cardinal's guards to scout out the area. Because of the Viscomte de Turenne's expert tactical abilities the marshals decided to divide the forces. One small group of infantry would advance in attempt to draw the rebel forces out, while the artillery waited in a heavily wooded area to ambush the forces. They would draw the rebels onto a narrow causeway surrounded by marshland. Henri knew Conde well and had worked beside him for years. The bourbon prince had an impetuous nature that would compel him to drive his forces after the retreating royalists. That paired with the nature of the terrain would force Conde's men to spread out, making them vulnerable to counter attack.

It was a superb plan. Even so, it was with heavy heart Louis agreed to it, knowing many in the first group would not survive the encounter. But the only alternative was taking the fighting into the town where many innocents would die as well. "War is meant to be carried out among warriors." The generals agreed. And so the plan was set. Louis walked the ranks solemnly, trying to commit each face to memory. "I will remember you," he promised. "I value your life. Fight well." He looked for signs of doubt…regret from these soldiers who were about to die. What he found was courage and even cheerful optimism. One soldier summed up the sentiment when he said, "Do not worry, my king, we are blade-bound, this was what we were made for. You will find we do not spend our lives lightly."

The fighting was unbelievably intense. The royal army stood four thousand strong while the prince's forces numbered twelve thousand. Louis and his bodyguard were stationed on a nearby hill watching the action unfold, but not close enough to be accidentally drawn into the fray.

Louis and Philippe stood arm in arm, each giving courage to the other. Both agreed that watching men fight and die for you must be one of the most difficult things about being king. But no matter how they wanted to turn away from the bloodshed, wanted to think about something other than what was going on in the valley below, they owed it to their men to stand firm and bear witness to the heroic quality of those who fought and died in their name.

Louis held his breath as the forces converged. He could feel the ground tremble at the charge when organized units dissolved into a seething sea of flailing arms and flashing blades. At the absolute last minute the royal forces broke off and Condés men thundered across the cause way, right into the teeth of the artillery. Cannons belched out at the rebel forces and the pop, pop, pop of small arms firing echoed across the marsh. The tang of sulfur was so strong it reached the royal pair on their hill-top observation post, making their eyes sting and giving them a plausible excuse for the tears that already streaked their cheeks.

Condé's men realized their mistake too late. The force had difficulty halting their forward push and they were ill prepared to organize a counter assault. There was turmoil on the causeway and before they could begin a retreat, the royal cavalry took to the field. Man against man, horse against horse, it was not for nothing that Rocheford was called 'cavalier.' He and his black clad guardsmen carved a great swath in the enemy's ranks.

Condé's horsemen may have been veterans of many a military campaign against the Spanish, but they had never faced anything like this before. The Chargers were as deadly as the blade-bound that rode them—biting, kicking, and dancing on hind-legs to better strike at their enemy. They drove many of the enemy's horsemen off the causeway and into the marsh where the musketeers easily dispatched them. It was too much for Condé's mercenaries, and they withdrew in disorder.

Captain Valerian, lately of the Cardinal's Guards, struggled up the hillside panting hard. His face was streaked with blood and mud; his armored breastplate was dented and seemed to be coated with at least two inches of dust, but his smile was undimmed. "Should we pursue my lord?" he asked, practically falling at the king's feet.

"No, let them go for now…they are broken. The sun is setting and our men need rest," Louis said, helping the man to his feet and offering him a flagon of water. The stalwart captain waved it away and put his horn to his lips instead. He blew out three short blasts so his men would let the enemy withdraw from the field, and then moved to occupy higher ground and good a defensive position.

-0-0-0-0-

As the forces fell back from battle they were met by those who had stood guard on the hilltop as the royal bodyguard. Captain De Batz was a bit confused by the action of his men until he learned that Prince Philippe had taken it upon himself to mobilize the men. The young prince quickly and efficiently had them bring water, food and first aid to those who required it. Then, he organized the fresh troops into a watch so those that had fought could rest and sleep secure in the knowledge that the enemy could not catch them unawares.

De Batz had not had much contact with the young prince since he had come to court the pervious winter. Usually, Philippe flitted about the edges in social situations or was content in his brother's shadow. Never had the captain seen him act entirely on his own…without prompting from Louis. But in this time of turmoil, Philippe chose to shine.

With undaunted energy the waif-like prince congratulated the war-weary soldiers. With soothing words and compassion he made the king's pleasure felt. "Who is that?" Some of the men asked. "That is Monsieur the king's brother, a true prince." Another answered. But the prince overheard and blushed. He knew the men meant that unlike Prince Condé, they judged him royal for his actions rather than his pedigree. "I am Philippe," he said, offering the dusty soldiers a dipper of water as any servant might. "I saw what you did today, and I am honored to be in such noble company."


	6. Twist of Fate

Chapter Five: Twist of Fate

Hours earlier, Jacques, Siroc and d'Artagnan tried to dissuade Ramón from being a part of the counter charge. It was true the medic had cleared him, but ever since rescuing Ramón from the clutches of the dark order, his friends had been a mite over protective. Siroc had warned that he might experience blackouts after all he had been through…but he had not. Ramón was touched by their concern, of course…but he WAS a musketeer. Musketeers took risks; it was part of the job. He did not need Siroc to tell him that what he had been through had been traumatic. It was. But sitting back while his comrades risked themselves in the king's cause just wasn't his style. When faced with darkness…it was a de la Cruz trait to fight with everything they had. To Ramón's mind, this was no different.

And so it was, the stalwart Spaniard had found himself together with a wedge of blade-bound, driving deep into the enemy forces. Siroc was stationed deeper in the fens with the artillery, but he had started out with Jacques and d'Artagnan beside him. They were determined to watch his back, but in the tide of battle such plans last only until blades are drawn. Ramón sent a silent prayer to the heavens for the safety of his friends and the souls of his enemies, and then urged his stallion into the battle tide.

His blue tunic stood out alongside his companions in black and grey. His blade cut deep. Advance and strike, thrust and cut—it was as if his arm reacted on its own. The battle was fierce, though the blade-bound clearly outclassed their enemy. Ramón had never imagined such consummate warriors in the flesh. Each fought as a hero right out of legend; these were men larger than life. His poet's mind told him that Ares fought beside him, and there was Thor to his left… Romulus and Remus there before him… and who but Hercules could turn the foe with such ease? Atlas, perhaps? Ramón suspected he too could have been counted among the blade-bound. Battle Glory…and death too, for even the old gods could die.

And the enemy…they did not see one Condé…they saw a dozen—hacking, cursing, probing for weakness and finding none. The battle was so fiercely joined and the strand was so narrow that soon much of the fighting was hand to hand, steel against steel… musket and harquebus fired at point blank range. At some point, Ramón had lost his horse. Sweat and grit ran into his eyes, but he did not let that deter him. The Prince le Condé had been thrown from his mount as well and he barely had a hold on the beast's reins.

Ramón dodged other foes, sword in one hand, a dirk in the other, wading through the fray. The man tried unsuccessfully to remount. But the horse danced away. His sides were already bloody from the cruel spurs of the rebel Prince. Ramón thought it would serve the Condé right if the splendid gelding kicked him in the head. Rather than have such a rider, the horse reared and leapt off the strand into the water and began swimming toward the far shore.

The rebel prince drew a pistol and took aim on the beast. And that was when Ramón plowed into him. The musket ball flew wide. But he met the irate Spaniard blade to blade. And that was when Ramón got a very good look at the weapon that tangled with his own. It was long and straight…an archaic design. The crosspiece was shot with gold and a great emerald was set into the pommel. "That is my father's blade," the Spaniard hissed through grit teeth.

"Is it now?" the noble sneered back, and then appeared to look thoughtful for an instant. His eyes unfocused and with a voice accustomed to command he said, "Come to my tent, tonight…alone. Tell no one. I expect we may have something to talk about." Having said that he grabbed hold of Ramón's belt and bandolier, and tossed him into the water after the fleeing horse. Ramón wasn't the best swimmer but like the horse, he thought it best to make his way to shore.

Siroc was there, standing in the cattails. He had been among a dozen sharpshooters crouched behind woven blinds. With his musket resting on his hip, his other hand stretched to help his friend to shore.

"Did you get him?" the Spaniard gasped. "Did you get Condé?"

"No." The inventor sighed. "Just after he tangled with you, he killed one of his own men, stole his horse and was off before I could get a proper shot."

Ramón ground his teeth together, knowing it was his fault. Though Siroc had not said as much, Ramón knew the inventor had purposely held his shot until he knew his friend was clear. "What about—" he began, but Siroc chose to finish the Spaniard's sentence for him.

"—the horse is fine." He motioned to the Prince's former mount tied to a tree farther back into the wood. "A Spanish thoroughbred by the look of him, don't you think?" the inventor asked, carefully leading his exhausted companion deeper into cover.

The gelding was skittish at first, but after some soothing words and an offering of fresh apples, he permitted he them to examine the gouges in his sides. "Not as bad as I'd feared," Ramón whispered to the gentled creature.

"I think he should be yours," Siroc offered. "Seeing how you saved his life." Siroc smiled and clapped him gently on the back.

"I-I don't know." The Spaniard frowned. "He saved his own life, I think. I just helped a little."

The triple blast of a horn indicated the battle was ended. The enemies were fleeing and the royal forces were to fall back to the king's position on the hilltop. They had been victorious.

-----------------

"Tell no one…" Ramón could not help but think he may have been a bit premature earlier that day when he had prided himself that Siroc had been wrong about the black outs, for apparently, he must have had one. He recalled nothing after the call to retreat. Now he found himself alone in the woods. Night closed around him and he had no idea which way led back to camp.

The trees all seemed the same and the overcast sky was starless. He had no idea how long he had wandered aimlessly in the darkness when his nose brought him to a halt. He sniffed expectantly just to be sure he had not been deceived, but no, that delectable fragrance could be none other than the most succulent Andalusi chicken, sliced with celery, cucumber, and tomato. His mouth watered…and the rest of him practically trembled with eagerness to trace out the source of that tantalizing smell.

He was in the midst of the camp before he even knew it. No one made a move to stop him, and he barely glanced at the soldiers seated around various campfires or those sleeping in tents nearby. He supposed he must not have wandered as far as he had thought, and that he merely got turned around in the darkness. The royal pavilion was situated at the top of the knoll and surely that must be where the feast was set.

He did not recognize the guards on duty outside the pavilion, but they let him enter without challenge. It was only once inside that he realized his extreme error. At the far side of the banquet table sat none other than Prince Louis Burbon…the Great Condé.


	7. Risky Rendezvous

Chapter Six: Risky Rendezvous 

In truth, Ramón was neither as helpless as he thought, nor was his 'black out" caused at all by residual symptoms on his recent captivity under Condé's command. It was Emris' doing. Ramón had told Siroc of his encounter with Condé and the inventor brought him straight away to the ex-musketeer. Emris had long suspected there were knights of the black tabernacle among the house of Burbon, but he had never had the proof. If Louis le Condé thought the Spanish musketeer was vulnerable to that sort of command, then it only followed that it was because he had played a role in Ramón's imprisonment. The three talked it out, and Ramón agreed to keep his appointment so they could find out what the rebellious prince had to say.

Emris watched as the young musketeer threaded his way through the woods towards the rebel camp. He tried not to think about what Charles would say when he learned what he had done. The legendary d'Artagnan would see this as further proof that his former friend, Aramis, was no different than the Cardinal, using Ramón and others as tools to achieve his own ends. To De Batz, it didn't matter that the young musketeer knew the risks going in or that he had agreed that this was a priceless opportunity to gain knowledge that could change the direction of the conflict and save countless lives. And Charles would be absolutely livid with rage were he to find out about Emris's other 'tools.'

Two small shadows ghosted through the underbrush, trailing the Spanish musketeer, unnoticed. The freeborn twins, Colt and Spring were the perfect spies. They were not the only eyes and ears Emris had within the enemy camp either. His half-guard nephew, Etienne and his friends, Anton and Andie, were within easy hailing distance should the little ones get into trouble. Aramis had still been a musketeer when he realized that a few children managed to find their way into any military camp. Some were slaves; most were urchins hoping to earn a coin or two running messages, washing pots, cleaning weapons or hauling firewood. Some poor children hoped to be taken on as a servant or page once the conflict was over. Others were outright thieves, hoping to scavenge what they could from the camp or from the battlefield and bring it back to their families. All were largely ignored.

Emris used this knowledge in his spy network and had been rewarded for it many times over. The Chancellor's twin sons knew how to be unobtrusive, and their inborn gifts that came with having two blade-bound parents gave them an edge the enemy would not expect.

They were able to stay quite close to Ramón, and when he entered the tent, they easily overheard everything that went on within. The risk was there, but it was manageable. If something went terribly wrong all he would need to do is uncover his lantern, and Protector and Gift would be there in scant seconds. The enemy would have considerably more to worry about than a lone musketeer and a couple of children.

Even so, there was the possibility Condé was part of the dark order. He may be capable of searching the thoughts of others. After his experience in the dark citadel, Ramón had been concerned that his thoughts might inadvertently endanger those that were to act as his life-line. Siroc suggested that Emris use the crystal orb to encourage him to forget, at least temporarily. They found that task easily accomplished.

-0-0-0-0-

Ramón felt like a plump mouse under the gaze of a hungry hawk.

"You came." Louis le Condé smiled, not sounding particularly surprised.

"Give me the sword," the Spaniard said with far more confidence then he felt.

"Give you? GIVE YOU?" The man chuckled, though the mirth in his voice did not spread to his eyes. "I don't think so."

"Then why?" the Spaniard began. And just as Siroc had earlier, Condé cut him off.

"Why did I call you here?" he asked. "Partly to see if I could…but mostly to gloat. I confess even princes are not beneath such things. But that is of no great concern, Senor de la Cruz…or do you prefer the title of Don of Montefrío?"

There was no doubt that the rebel prince was offering him a shot at getting his birthright back…but at what price? Ramon gripped his jeweled dagger and said, "I am Ramón Montalvo Francisco de la Cruz. I hold the rank of private in the royal musketeers, and I serve King Louis, the fourteenth of that name to hold the noble throne of France."

The rebel prince gave him a droll smile and made a show of applauding politely. "I find it such a pity that fine fellows like you and I attempt to cut one another's throats over such a paltry thing as allegiance. Please Private de la Cruz, take a seat…you must be famished. You are quite safe for the moment I assure you."

Ramón grit his teeth. He would sooner dine with the filthiest beggar in the streets than with this man who dared raise a hand against his king. But at this point, it was not exactly prudent to offend the man over much. There were many questions swirling around in his mind, questions only the rebel prince could answer.

Mentally, Ramon bolstered his resolve with the words, i _'Aderezas mesa delante de mí en presencia de mis angustiadores._' /i The words had given him courage in the dark of the citadel, and this situation breathed new life into them as he saw the banquet table his foe laid before him.

The young Spaniard took a deep breath and did as he was told. The chicken was every bit as delicious as he thought it would be, but he did not enjoy it. The fine roasted potatoes and beans brought back vivid images of his homeland and it took all his force of will to drive them away. He watched carefully. Everything he ate, Condé had eaten before him so there was no threat of poison. Still, his gaze kept stealing back to the sword, his grandfather's sword, his father's sword…his sword. Stolen by his uncle…apparently stolen again by Louis le Condé.

"You and your little friends have a choice to make," Louis said, toying idly with the sword, its perfectly honed blade catching in the torchlight. "My cousin and brother are even now in Paris preparing a fine welcome for your little king. But I am going south. I fought the Spanish many years, it is true, but not all Spaniards are my enemies. This blade proves it. You could have been my friend too, but you have chosen to spurn that option. Now, you must make yet another decision: Will you go to Paris and try to stop what I have waiting for the king? Or are you going to try to prevent me from meeting my allies in Spain? You haven't time for both, I am afraid. And it is only fair to tell you that the sword isn't the only thing to weigh in the balance…there is this too." The prince put his fingers to his lips and whistled.

Soldiers threw aside a curtain at the back at the pavilion and Ramón saw between them a small boy, nearly naked, bruised and battered with a slave collar around his neck. Clearly any resistance Ramón put up would mean the boy's life, but that was not necessarily enough to forestall his action. It was what the prince said next that stopped him dead in his tracks. "Marco, say hello to your big brother."

----------------------------------------

After that brief interview, Ramón was blindly clawing his way through the foliage toward the royal camp. Marco had barely been old enough to stand when Uncle Nando sent him away. Finding him here…now…in such precarious condition nearly broke the Spaniard's heart. Condé obviously treated the boy like chattel…and Ramón wanted the upstart prince to pay dearly for the indignities his brother had been put through.

The hot blooded musketeer nearly bit his lip clean through as familial bonds warred with common sense within him. There was nothing he could do alone. Should he attempt something, he and Marco would both die and there would be no one to warn the king about the danger in Paris. It had been a difficult decision, but finally Ramón pried himself away, telling his brother that he loved him as he fled Condé's camp.

-0-0-0-0-

"Where have you been?!" D'Artagnan grabbed the front of Ramón's doublet, patting him down as if to reassure himself that the Spaniard was in one piece. He seemed a bit pale but did not look injured. He sighed with relief, and then Ramon's words took him completely off guard.

"I've been a guest of Condé…if you'll believe it…I need to talk to the captains," Ramón told him, his voice quavered and what little color he had drained away at the memory.

D'Artagnan had seen his friend in shock before and didn't like the way he was looking now. It seemed the slightest breeze would knock him over. The Gascon knew he could not lend his friend strength to speak before the king and captains, but he could offer his arm as support, and did so. Together the two friends climbed the hill to the command tent.


	8. Explosive Results

Chapter Seven: Explosive Results

The Spanish musketeer had been breathlessly recounting all he had seen and heard in the enemy camp to Louis, Philippe and the other battle commanders. Ramon was weary body and mind…but he was also unbelievably nervous too. Questions and doubts flitted through his mind. What if they didn't believe him? What if they somehow thought he was in collusion with the enemy commander? His story certainly sounded unbelievable. Why had Condé singled him out? Ramon's voice faltered and he bit his lip uncertainly.

Seeing the young musketeer's confusion—and knowing the Spaniard only remembered a portion of what had actually occurred—Emris stepped up and told his portion of the tale. When he finished, any question of the musketeer's loyalty vanished. The majority of the commanders were blade bound. They understood the ways of the unseen and the lengths necessary to combat the dark order. They knew Emris's unwavering commitment to stamping it out and were grateful for his efforts. They accepted his report and moved on to the essential issue: What to do about the information they had been given. None of them noticed when the legendary d'Artagnan slipped from the command tent, but everyone noticed when a commotion erupted outside.

The simmering coals of anger and bitterness had finally burst into flame. Before anyone knew what was happening, the two men were rolling around in the dirt outside attempting to throttle one another.

"Lousy swine," Charles growled as his fist connected to the other's jaw.

"I-did-what-I thought-was-right." Emris gasped. And the scuffle that followed was no holds barred.

The legends d'Artagnan and Aramis were locked head to head..."You had no right!" D'Artagnan senior tried to punch his onetime friend in the face.

"There wasn't time." the ex-musketeer rolled away and tried to pin the other man's flailing fists.

"Reckless!" Charles spat the word. "Risking musketeer lives…AGAIN." The hurt he had felt when he had first learned the man he trusted with his life was a spy erupted to life once more. Those wounds had never healed and the bitterness brought a long parade of images to his mind—times when his supposed friend put, what Charles thought of as, "his mindless vendetta" before the needs of those around him.

Emris ground his teeth together at the other's pronouncement. Charles just didn't understand the nature of the battle they fought. D'Artagnans were struck from a warrior's mold. Charles thought in terms of manpower, weapons equipment and tactics. He trusted in horses and daring feats of arms. But Aramis knew there were deeper issues. He was a combatant in the unseen war—the power of the dark order against the defenders of the light. And how could he not be? He had, after all, been trained as a priest. It was real to him in a way that Charles could not understand, and Aramis hoped that his friend would never have cause to live his nightmare, Aramis had felt the power of the evil ones first hand…had been marked by it. The warrior-priest tried to keep some small hold on his temper. In his own defense he recalled, "I did nothing without his consent…" The two rolled completely over one another in the sandy soil.

The elder d'Artagnan had ceased to think of the man as Aramis, his friend; he saw only Emris the traitor. He would not listen to reason. "_Mon dieu!_ You would kill my son's friends as you tried to kill me?!" The senior d'Artagnan had never gotten over the admission that Emris had fired the bullet that nearly killed him that rainy night. Weeks later, the four of them took the stand together to testify Rocheford had been responsible for attempting to kill a fellow musketeer. It galled him still that Emris knew 'his friends' were unknowingly perjuring themselves. Still he had chosen to keep silent. It wasn't hard to guess why. Everyone in the corps knew Emris hated the dark cavalier. Having him cast out of the Musketeer Corps only served his ends.

Years had passed and still Emris chose to say nothing. It was only after Richelieu's death, in an uncharacteristically unguarded moment, that they had finally told them the truth. Aramis had apologized, profusely in fact. But it was difficult to take him seriously as his words slid off one another, lubricated, as they were by copious quantities of Athos's best blackberry brandy. Charles was convinced that, if not for that one brief slip, his 'friend' never would have said anything at all.

The all too vivid memory of that dark night—when the bullet he had meant for Richelieu's spy bit harshly into d'Artagnan exposed back—pushed Aramis once again to the brink of sanity. "Never!" He exclaimed his elbow coming up and soundly clipping Charles in the jaw. The other man's mouth snapped shut with the force and permitted Emris to get out a few more words before being interrupted. "Musketeers are not immune to danger, as you should well recall, but I take every precaution to keep my people safe."

De Batz angrily pushed himself away from the other man. "Listen to yourself…possessive of your tools aren't you? You arrogant hedge wizard!" He crab walked backward as Aramis lunged for him. The ex-musketeer was beyond words now; he growled seeming more wolf than man. The two men were so caught up in the tide of emotion and memory they were oblivious to the attention they were drawing to themselves.

"ENOUGH!" an authoritative voice demanded, momentarily stunning both combatants. Aramis's eyes widened in surprise. Charles glanced over his shoulder to glimpse a bit of blue and gold striped fabric inches behind him. As anger clouded his mind, he struggled to make sense of the sight. Gradually, the fabric resolved itself into a pair if pantaloons with a silk bows at the knees, fine white stockings and elegant healed shoes.

The legend winced. Still seated on the ground, he had to strain his neck to look directly upward into the face of the rather irate young monarch. Hands on his hips, forehead creased in a frown Louis spoke quietly so his voice would carry no farther than the three of them. Even so, his words had no less impact than if he had shouted them to the heavens. "I am ashamed of you two. People consider you legends…role models for all of France. Yet here you are, in front of the finest fighting force France has ever known, acting like children. Enough of this! What would either of you say if it were Philippe and I rolling about on the grass?"

The elder d'Artagnan literally had to bite his tongue to keep from retorting, "He started it!" Not only would it have been an extremely childish thing to do, it also would have been a lie, and he knew it. Still, he took some small satisfaction that Aramis looked equally chagrinned at his own behavior.

No matter their feelings for each other, de Batz and de Ruse were still more alike than they were different. At the same instant the two men slowly rose to their feet and brushed a bit of dust from their clothing. In one voice they answered, "I am sorry my liege." Both bowed and kept their eyes downcast to show their contrition.

Louis raised an eyebrow and exchanged glances with his brother. As surreptitious twins, the two royals had practiced hard to avoid acting with such natural synchronicity, but the link between them remained. That brief look confirmed that both brothers were of one mind about what they should do about this matter.

The king cleared his throat and struck his 'royal pose,' head high, shoulders back and one hand on his hip. "Though we do not directly command this most excellent war force it is with in our purview that we do command the two of you. As you well know, my Cousin has set before us a challenge. He bids us to choose whether to intercept him before he can slip off to his allies across the Spanish border or move in haste to the capital where he has supporters likely threatening our mother-queen and other members of the court. I need not tell you that this is a grave situation." With a surreptitious movement, he wiped his nose and with his handkerchief, and in a lower voice he added, "Which makes this outburst all the more ill timed." Louis sighed and continued his pronouncement, "I will be leading the army back to Paris… You two, my trusted advisors, will be following my cousin to the border. At this point I do not expect that you can stop him, but find out who he is meeting, if you can. And of course, you must safely extract certain valuables from among his train and return them to their rightful keepers. Do you understand?"

Both Charles and Emris could not help but compare Young Louis to his predecessor. He was so decisively regal that it was easy to overlook the fact that he was only thirteen years of age. It was not the boy that addressed them now; it was the king. "As you wish majesty." The elder d'Artagnan answered and Aramis echoed, "So be it."

"Do try not to kill one another, eh?" Louis snorted, turning on his heel and twirling his fur edged cape over his shoulder with a flourish before stalking back into the tent.


	9. Headlong Rush

Chapter Eight: Headlong Rush

Charles de Batz d'Artagnan rode in sullen silence, pointedly trying to ignore the dark—cloaked man riding beside him. The king commanded that Aramis and do he this thing…but he had not stipulated that either of them had to like it. A tiny voice within the illustrious captain scoffed that he was being silly and childish, again.

The silent treatment was nothing to a scholar like Emris. He would be content alone with his thoughts for weeks at a time. In that he was much like Athos who could be as silent and implacable as a mountainside. Charles was only slightly less loquacious than Porthos, the most unconscionably exuberant of the foursome. The silence bothered him far more than it did the other man. In the conversation vacuum, uncomfortable thoughts bubbled to the surface of his mind. How many hundreds of times had he ridden along side Aramis like this? How many hundreds of patrols had Captain Tréville sent them on?

His mind drifted again to le Rochelle, St Gervais, Bell Isle, and even to England on occasion, not to mention countless other places. Athos, Porthos, Aramis and he were, after all, legends for just cause. For the four of them to have done all they had and still survive was an impressive feat. Eventually the tiny voice in Charles mind argued that he ought to form a temporary truce with Aramis, lest the enemy use their divisiveness against them. The annoying voice reminded him that there had been a time when they had been part of an unstoppable team…and they could be once again. D'Artagnan snorted derisively, and tightening his grip on the reigns, he urged his mighty bay past the piebald stallion.

Emris knew what d'Artagnan was doing, of course. He could read it in the other man's posture, how he set astride his steed with his chin jutting forward and his feathered cap set at a jaunty angle. The captain was itching for a fight. Though there were more lines on his face, the expression the Gascon wore was not so different from the one he had worn his first day in Paris.

Oh how Aramis had wanted to teach the young snip a lesson in manners THAT day. He smirked at the memory. The innocent country rube had been challenged to three duels in one afternoon. Athos and Porthos had prior claim. And then, the Cardinal's guards had spoiled things. Before any of them had known what was happening, it was the four of them against a half dozen red-guard. It had been a stunning victory, of course, but after that the insolent pup was considered one of them.

D'artagnan cast a glimpse sideways and saw that despite urging his steed forward his beast was still neck in neck matching pace exactly with that of the one time musketeer. Aramis's expression was unchanged; he seemed lost in thought, unflappable—but the slightest pressure of knee on flank compelled his stallion to match any move the bay made. It was a wordless challenge…and the legendary d'Artagnan had always had difficulty passing up a challenge.

Charles spurred his horse into a gallop, skirting the meadow mane and tail streaming like the shadow of a passing cloud. The captain bent over his mount's neck, racing the wind. But when he happened to glance to the left, there was Aramis, eyes forward, seemingly oblivious to his presence. But he was not. D'Artagnan recognized the sly smile flitting about the corner of his mouth.

Like two boys they raced across the countryside in the wake of Condé's greatly diminished forces. Most of the twelve thousand he had begun with were dead or scattered. Less than 300 had chosen to ride south with the Bourbon Prince. The one time companions had no difficulty following their trace.

It had likely been a heartrending decision for Louis to give up the chase, knowing his blade-bound could easily ride down the enemy and end the threat for good. But though he was king, Louis was a dutiful son first and foremost. Queen Anne was threatened and those that love her best would move heaven and earth to see her safe, as Charles knew well. That conflicting loyalty warred in his breast even now. He was the king's man and always would be, but the queen…his queen…his Anne…D'Artagnan swallowed hard wishing he was riding to her aid instead of tied by his loyalty to the king and to this…this…he sent Emris another icy glare and slowed his mount.

The scholar wasn't even breathing hard. D'Artagnan's bay had no more a chance of outdistancing the stallion than it did fleeing its own shadow. The captain would have ground his teeth in frustration, but he did not want to see that gleam of victory in Aramis's dark eyes.

It was easy to rile the legendary d'Artagnan…and there had been times it had been a bit of a hobby with Athos, Porthos and himself to twit the young Gascon…Emris had forgotten how much he missed it.

All sentimental thoughts fled, however, when they reached the apex of a small hill and came upon a sight of wanton destruction; a small community nestled in the wood had fallen prey to Condé's raiders. Houses burned. Livestock scattered or had been stolen, and bodies…Aramis shivered to think of them, young and old alike.

Carnage was expected in battle, but these had been loyal citizens of France…murdered by the noble who was supposed to serve and protect them. No conversation was necessary for the former musketeers to move as one and settle the matter—giving the peasants a decent burial. Their minds were numb as D'Artagnan did most of the digging and Aramis knelt and said the proper words to send the souls to their eternal rest.

It was near dusk when the task was finished. Both men were bone weary when they skipped back into their saddles: neither wanted to spend the night in such a place. They rode a good way into the forest until they came to a clear running stream to wash the grit and smell of smoke from their garments and hair before rolling up in their cloaks beneath the stars. As tired as they were, it was a long time before sleep claimed them.


	10. Intelligence

Chapter Nine: Intelligence

----------------------- 

Prince Condé had genuinely hoped the full force of the Royal army would indeed pursue him to the boarder. He hoped to exhaust them, wear them down, through rough terrain and ambushes by night. But it seemed the young king was not as impulsive as he had thought…not so driven for revenge. Days passed and there was no sign of pursuit, a fact the Prince gleefully pointed out to his helpless captive. The thought jolted Ramon out of a restless sleep—his heart careening against his chest.

The Glorious army of France had been driving themselves at a mind blowing pace. It seemed blade bound did not tire as normal soldiers did and their superior night vision carried them onward long after the young musketeers would have stopped to set up camp. The strain was even more difficult for Louis and Philippe. The twins were often asleep in their saddles when the column finally ground to a halt. Jacques, Siroc, d'Artagnan, and Ramon had somehow merited the delicate task easing the barely conscious boys off their mounts and into their sleeping couches. Of all those gathered together, there were none that the royal pair knew so well or trusted so implicitly. It was an honor, and a burden the foursome had to bear before stumbling off to collapse in a heap somewhere. Often they had not even bothered to find a tent.

The captains of the blade-bound knew that their men had no difficulty keeping up such a ground-eating pace, but they were concerned. Daily, they asked the young nobles if they wanted the army to slow, for their sakes. But regardless as to which twin wore the crown that day, both agreed that they had to continue on, in all haste. Their determination was awe inspiring, but that didn't change the fact that they were traveling in the wrong direction. Every league closer to Paris seemed to stretch Ramon's soul a little bit more. Every time he closed his eyes he saw the predatory gleam in the general's eyes and the livid bruises on his brother's frail body. "I CAN'T," he said half-sobbing, while twisting the short cape he used as a blanket into a thick rope between his hands.

"Shhh, Ramon, it will be all right," Jacques soothed. The female musketeer had long feared what would happen if her disguised gender became known to her comrades-in-arms and now that it had, it seemed her maternal side was getting more exercise than it had even before she decided to take up the tunic of the musketeer. Siroc, Ramon, the king, and now Ramon again: All unwittingly turned to her for comfort. And surprisingly, she did not begrudge them one bit.

She touched the Spaniard's shoulder tenderly. "The legends will bring your brother back safely. I'm sure of it."

"I should be there! I should be the one to free him…It is my responsibility…It is my fault." Ramon shuddered fighting back the tears.

"Hold on there, amigo." D'Artagnan rolled over and sat up stiffly. "I understand you wanting to be there for him, and it makes sense you would want to protect your flesh and blood, but I can't see how any of this is your fault. Put blame where it belongs on Prince Louis le Condé's pointy head."

"You don't understand." Ramon sniffed.

"Explain it to us then," Jacqueline gently suggested.

"I was too weak stop my uncle from sending him away…then I forgot about him. When I ran away I should have tried to find him…I should have tried to find all my family. But I didn't. Marco was in trouble and I did nothing. I didn't know then, but this time I do know…and still I do nothing." He wept openly now, letting the tears carve trails across his tanned cheeks. His shoulders shuddered uncontrollably and his heart screamed, but for all outward appearances his grief was silent.

Siroc was not as emotionally in tune as his comrades were, and he was very much at a loss as to what he could say to ease his friend's heartache. But he was not oblivious to it. Wordlessly, he stretched out his had and grasped Ramon's, squeezing it gently, just enough to let the other know he was there and would remain at his side, regardless. There was one thing the ex-slave had learned from their recent ordeal in the citadel of the dark order: It was that even when things looked impossible there was still one thing you could do to vanquish the darkness…you had to let in the light.

Siroc's eyes lingered on the cross hanging in the hollow of Jacqueline's throat. He marveled how it glimmered in the moonlight. Siroc took Ramon's hand in his own as a show of support and said, "Prayer is not 'nothing.'" Jacqueline nodded her agreement, taking the Spaniard's other hand and squeezing it gently. Seeing what they were doing d'Artagnan caught up both his friend's free hands, closing the circle, and with a heart of unity the four of them sent their earnest entreaties to the star littered expanse of the heavens.

They lifted up Marco, praying that he would know he was not alone, that he would have strength to hold on until help could arrive, and that he would be quickly and safely reunited with his brother who loved him. They prayed for a spirit of peace and cooperation between d'Artagnan's father and Emris as they traveled into danger. They prayed for the safety of young Etienne, Anton and Andy as well as the little twins secreted in the enemy rank—that they would not risk themselves unnecessarily. Finally they prayed for Condé himself, that the darkness controlling his heart would be defeated, and that the order he served would be broken. In short they prayed for an age of safety and peace for those they cared about, and for all of France.

Ramon was touched by this show of faith from his dearest friends and his troubled spirit seemed to ease. Finally, it seemed that he might be able to find some rest before the first blush of dawn touched the sky.  
-----------------------

The next morning, when Emris as repacking his gear the sound of a familiar bird call caught his attention. The spy-master paused while tightening the girth of his saddle and tried to pinpoint the exact direction from which the call had come. Charles was just coming back from filling the water flasks in the stream. There was no way he could slip away without the other man knowing. He sighed. "Can you finish getting the supplies packed? I've got something I need to take care of first," he asked as amiably as possible.

Charles's frown was expressive. Once, he wouldn't have given the request a second thought, but much had changed between the two of them since then. "Meeting with one of your spies?" the sable-haired man accused with a snarl.

Emris ran his fingers through his bangs and blew his breath out in a puff, "Actually, yes. I didn't think to concern you with it…since I know how you feel about my connections. But if you are going to be that way about it, fine!" the man exclaimed firmly, and then put his fingers to his lips and whistled a shrill response.

Within moments a young man broke cover and jogged down the hillside to meet them. Charles was first shocked at how young and frail looking the boy was, with mussed brown hair and clothing that was both patched and faded. He was even more astonished when Aramis introduced him. "Charles, I don't expect you know my nephew Etienne…Etienne, Charles De Batz, the elder d'Artagnan."

"Sir!" the young man snapped to attention crisply and gave the unmistakable salute of the blade-bound. 'His nephew?' Charles turned that idea over in his mind. Athos had said something about Aramis Sister and a soldier connected with Chosen called Brand…Or had it been Tan? Charles shook his head at the propensity of the blade bound to willingly 'color-code themselves. So this was Kate-lyn's son?

Etienne did not flinch under the legend's gaze. In fact, his attention focused on his uncle who was folding up his bedroll and tying to behind his saddle. As any good soldier, he stood at attention to give his report. "Condé and those that remain with him are, as I suspect you know, headed for the Spanish border." The young man announced. "They expect to meet up with representatives from several high ranking Spanish families in two days time. There will likely be more soldiers as escorts which may complicate our departure from the ranks. Do you wish us to stay with him till the border or have you come to recall us to the capital?"

"Get to safety…Emris he is far too young to be used in this way. How could you? Your own flesh and blood!" d'Artagnan growled, noting as he did that the boy had the same intense eyes as his Aramis and the same long dexterous fingers. Young Etienne was probably just as skilled with a pen…or dagger…or lock pick—, Charles reasoned. He didn't seem to be anything out of the ordinary, unless you knew what to look for. And that, the captain supposed, was precisely what made him such a valuable spy.

"Do you know who Condé is meeting?" Emris asked, pretending Charles wasn't there.

The boy shook his head. "No names; most of the soldiers who remain at his Condé's are of the tight-lipped variety. We didn't want to risk exposure by seeming curious." The boy twirled a lock of his untidy brown hair around his nimble fingers.

"We also are looking for a sword and a boy … a Spaniard. I believe he is called Marco," Aramis explained.

"The little twins have been keeping close watch on him. If anyone knows the names you are looking for, he will. Anton and I were planning on taking him with us even if he wasn't among the stated objectives. The sword might be a problem though, the prince keeps it with him most of the time." Etienne frowned.

"How much time do you think you'll need to extricate yourselves from among the camp followers?" Emris asked, knowing his nephew was uncannily adept at gauging such things. "How much risk is there?"

"The civilians have been trickling away like water from a leaky bucket since that last battle…I'd say the soldiers kill one in every five. A bunch tried to make a break at the last village. I expect you saw what happened there." Etienne's hands clenched in a sudden flare of rage, and in that one movement he vividly revealed his heritage as blade-bound. The dagger that appeared almost magically in his hand nicked the thumb of his opposite hand. He let the crimson drop form for a second and then licked it off. "Condé will pay," he said darkly. "Swear it."

Emris nodded grimly, nicking his own finger and taking the boy's and in his own to seal the pact, but he didn't trust his voice to craft an appropriate remark. De Batz was shaking his head in agreement. If it was at all possible he would see justice for those souls as well. The captain's eyes blazed at the thought that the boy had been a witness to such atrocities. But for once his anger was placed directly on Condé and his men, and not on Emris who had permitted the boy to be placed in that situation. In that single action, Charles realized the boy was a warrior. He would not sit quietly on the sidelines and wait for something to happen. He would get involved, with or without the consent of his elders. Had d'Artagnan been any different at that age? He wondered.

Etienne squeezed Emris's hand tightly in his own; it was all the confirmation he needed. The anger in his eyes drained away, and he continued with his report, "We'd need about ten minutes to get clear. Twenty would be better, if you mean for us to go for the sword."

"Let us worry about the sword," Aramis Said. "I intend to challenge the Great Condé for it. I expect that should be enough of a distraction to let the others slip away…What do you think Charles, will you act as my duel-second one last time?"

As musketeers, the four of them had been involved in countless duels and always one of the others agreed to act as second. To show up for a duel unaccompanied was a foolish thing to do. When he had shown up unaccompanied all those years ago, when he first expected to duel Athos, Aramis and Porthos had been there to second him.

Witnesses ensured everything was aboveboard. It was the duel-second's duty to see that the rules of combat were followed and to keep an eye out for treachery. Over the years, Aramis had stood unwavering by his side to duel and he had returned the favor at least as often as Athos and Porthos had.

"Risky," d'Artagnan said, biting his lip in thought. It was true that Emris often placed the lives of others in harm's way, but he put his own on the line just as quickly. Still, the prospect appealed to him; it was something reminiscent of the type of thing they did in their younger days. Daring, effective…he felt the blood quicken in his veins. God, he loved a challenge. "I'll do it," he decided finally.


	11. Contest

Chapter Ten: Contest 

Etienne, Emris and the elder d'Artagnan finalized their plans before the young spy slipped off to rendezvous with the rest of his team. He had given the men precise information detailing the terrain separating them with the remaining body of the rebel force. He also knew the precise route the enemy planned to take toward the boarder.

By taking an alternate route the two men had been able to slip past the enemy guards, and outdistanced them. Now they were lying in wait for Condé and his men to come to them. This had the added benefit of letting them rest, while the rebel prince spent several hours in the saddle. "He will be stiff when he arrives," de Batz reasoned, playing the plan over in his mind. "It should work."

The two men lounged in the bushes. For a long while neither said anything. But for the first time in a long time, it wasn't an uneasy silence. Both seemed more agreeable this morning. Finally, it was Emris who spoke. "I AM sorry." He said softly.

"For?" Charles asked, a bit suspiciously.

Emris rolled his eyes, 'where to begin?' he wondered. "I have done a lot of things I regret…but I think most of all I wish I had been a better friend to you and the others. You remember when I used to write poetry. I could always turn a phrase to impress the ladies, but words on paper are never as intimidating as dealing with raw emotion face to face. When it comes to speaking my heart and mind…I am a coward," he said, plucking a mint leaf from a nearby plant and chewing on it thoughtfully.

"You know how much your secrets hurt us? How betrayed we felt that after all that time you didn't trust us to…" the words died away and Charles shook his head. It would be easy to reach for the anger such memories always stirred, up but right now he just felt tired.

"I know, and I AM sorry." Even as he said them, Emris knew the words couldn't adequately convey what he wanted to say. "Did you ever forgive yourself for that night you spent with Anne?" he asked.

"Y-you knew about that?" Charles sputtered his mind reeled--Aramis knew and he had never said anything.

"We all knew you loved her. Even though you never said anything, we all knew." Emris whispered. Charles de Batz Castlemore d'Artagnan had a treasonous affair with the queen he was sworn to protect—. It was the ultimate betrayal of the code. He had been manipulated by the king…and as a result the royal twins Louis and Philippe were born. Of course, that last bit had never been brought to Charles's attention. But that was Anne's secret not his.

After thinking about the question for a few minutes Charles finally answered "No, I haven't." He pulled a leaf from the mint plant, rolling it between his fingers and breathing in the fragrance. "Emotion clouds a man's judgment sometimes. You act without thinking and don't consider the consequences."

"I understand," Emris answered solemnly.

They felt the rebels approach before they heard them. An army of 300 strong—with its associated animals, equipment and supply train—made the ground tremble. The two former comrades waited anxiously as the military vanguard passed them, fording a brisk stream and rounding a bend in the trail. Condé always traveled in the middle of his host. When he entered the clearing, the action would begin.

At last, Emris leapt to his feet and fired his pistol. Quick as a thought, Charles removed the smoking weapon from his hand and put a loaded one in its place. The single shot was every bit as effective as they had hopped. It whizzed between the ears of Condé's steed, making the beast rear and tossing its master unceremoniously to the ground. The rebel general got to his feet cursing and wiping the dust from his velvet doublet. A thin line of blood marked the back of his hand where he had been holding the reins.

In a loud voice Aramis, announced, "I, Henri Aramitz Béarn-Bonasse de Ruse, do here by challenge you, Louis II de Bourbon-Condé, to a contest of arms—A duel of honor. If you have any" he whispered the last sentence between shouts. "Do you accept?"

Condé looked suitably stunned. "What are your terms?" the hawk-faced man asked.

Emris smiled wickedly. "I want your sword…the pretty one with the emerald."

"How are you willing to pay for it should you lose?" Condé asked, a note of amusement in his voice.

"With my life," the former musketeer said off handedly.

"Not enough," Condé sneered arrogantly.

"And mine," Charles added, rising to his feet to stand beside his friend.

"Ahhh, Captain de Bats d'Artagnan, and that would make you the equally legendary Aramis. Pardon, I didn't recognize the name." He bowed mockingly. "I see my cousin sent his faithful watchdogs to see me safely on my way. You say you want the sword…but I expect you have come for the boy. You won't get either. This is clearly an ambush." With that pronouncement, he directed his next words to the soldiers at his side, "You, men! Search the countryside and uncover the rest of his force. There can't be many of them or our scouts would have noticed the pursuit. Those you don't kill outright, bring to me. I'll let these two watch their friends die before meeting the same fate. Perhaps I'll send your heads to my cousin."

"You haven't won the duel yet," Aramis reminded him. You must earn the right to take our heads. Do you really think you can best me and my duel-second? Remember if we win, the sword is ours and you let us go on our way. That is the way the game is played."

"If you don't play by the rules, your men will know you for the graven villain you are," Charles added, his voice dripping with characteristic Gascony insolence.

Condé looked around at his men. Many were casting uncertain glances at one another. Some, it seemed, didn't think he could win in this exchange. He hated to admit it, but the man was right. This was a matter of personal honor, independent of his conflict with his cousin. It was not a matter of war. If he refused or if he simply killed them outright, he would tarnish his reputation before his men. And he still needed them.

"Very well, I accept," the rebel prince announced. The men who captured his frightened steed brought it close so he could draw the decorative Spanish long sword from the pack behind the saddle. He walked to the center of the clearing and placed the blade point first into the earth so that it stood on its own. While his men fell into a loose circle, ringing the area, to get a good view of the spectacle. "There is your prize," the general said, and then drew a more common rapier from the scabbard at his side. "Are you ready?"

"En garde," Aramis announced, his own blade singing as it left the sheath. And in the space of one heartbeat, the two combatants went at it hammer and tongs. The sound of metal rang out, time and again, as their practiced footfalls traced intricate patterns in the short grass. Both were clearly masters of this dance of death. The outcome was far from certain. D'Artagnan had forgotten how good Aramis had been and it didn't appear his skill had mellowed any with age. For once Charles was glad he was not in the ring with the man.

This was going to be a long fight. 


	12. At Long Last

Chapter Eleven: At Long Last

The situation in the capital was resolved far quicker than anyone imagined. The conspirators had not anticipated the speed at which the blade-bound could cover at a steady march. They were inside the walls of the capital before the rebel's men had begun reinforcing their position. Captain Duval had gotten word of the trouble brewing and suggested that the queen and her ladies sequester themselves in the palace for a few days. But nothing worse had come of it.

The troublemakers were rounded up in the dark of night and summarily carted off to the Bastille to await trial. The next morning the victorious young king was met by adoring crowds when he reentered his city in triumph. The reunion with his mother, later, was private.

Louis and Philippe ran for her…like the boys they were, burying themselves in her arms.

Between sniffles and tears they exchanged stories of all that had gone on while they were apart. When Philippe had nearly finished the end of their tale, Anne caught her breath, and with wide eyes she asked, "W-where is Charles?"

"He's gone after Condé, with Aramis," Louis told her quietly, unable to meet her gaze. "It was my decision. If something happens to him…I am the one that is to blame."

"My dear, sweet king." She kissed him lightly on the brow. "Over the years I have had to come to terms with the fact that my champion is first and foremost, a soldier. He can handle himself very well in most difficult of circumstances. It doesn't keep me from worrying for him, of course. But if the day comes when battle takes him from me I will know his spirit will live on in all who are noble and true. Remember, my dears," she looked into the boy's eyes and said, "Legends never die. Now, go get cleaned up and ready for dinner. I suspect you are famished…and your clothing is a dreadful mess." She smiled and waved the young royals off to their chambers.

When she was sure they had gone, she let herself collapse. Uncontrollable sobs wracked her body. She trembled and gasped for breath as she was completely undone by the wild emotions raging inside her. "My boys are fine. They are safe…the battle is over…the threat is gone for now…the Bourbon's power is broken." She repeated the words like a mantra clutching her arms to her chest. But with in her another voice cried out, a keening wail that focused the very core of her being into a single word: "Charles!"

She weakly groped her way toward the small writing desk in the corner of the parlor. With clumsy fingers and shaking hands she found a parchment and hastily began to write:

My Best Beloved, Captain.

I will not ask you to forgive your brother, for I know that is a decision you must come to on your own. But after all this time, I ask, I beg you to forgive yourself. If I were to lose you before you were to know the truth of how things stand between us, I would surely follow you into darkness. You have been my guide and my strength through so many of the storms of life.

Without you I would never have had the strength to do that for which destiny made my lot. Can't you understand that the very thing that fills you with such self-loathing is the very root of my joy? We were manipulated; it is true. It was the hand of another that thrust our hurting souls together, time and time again, until our resolve finally broke. But I have never come to resent the fact. Arthur did what he thought was best for Camelot. You remain a part of my heart and it is you I see every time I look into our sons' eyes. They are yours. I know it, and it is time you did as well. Come to me at your leisure and we will speak of these things in length.

Yours Alone, Guinevere

Her woman's heart resented the need for secrecy, but the spirit of the queen in her demanded caution. One did not write openly of such matters. She could only hope her Lancelot would understand. Anne carefully blotted the ink and folded the note, sealing it, not with her usual signet, but with the ring she wore on her smallest finger…a ring decorated only with the fleur-de-lie, as it was depicted on the musketeer's tunic. She tucked the note in the fold of her bodice and hoped she would at last have the opportunity to deliver it.

---------------

In the position as Duel second, it was Charles' duty to act as referee of the fight. Conde had named Francois de Vendome—his second otherwise known as 'le roi des Halles', a man with a formidable reputation as a duelist. In fact he killed his brother-in-law in a 'not so friendly' duel some time ago.

Even so, D'Artagnan was confident that he could best the man, if it came to that, but neither 'Second' was permitted to join the battle unless one of the declared combatants tried some underhanded trick, breaching the etiquette of the duel. And then, only the two who had been named could step in to assist. The other soldiers crowding around were bound by the convention of combat to be nothing more than spectators.

Charles stood with hands on his hips watching the epic battle that unfolded in the wooded clearing. Both combatants were panting heavily and bleeding from a dozen minor wounds by the time Condé's men, who had been sent looking for additional enemies lurking in the woods, returned.

D'Artagnan's heart went faint with fear that the guards had noticed that Etienne and the other children were missing…or worse, he worried that they had been recaptured as they attempted to slip away. But the burly men returned empty-handed. "Looks like it is just these two, Sir. If there were more, which I doubt, they have slipped away and left these two fools to us," one of the officers announced to his beleaguered commander.

"Idiot," the Great Condé snarled at the man. "If they got away it is because of your incompetence. I do not underestimate legends—" the general withdrew half a step, and with a fluid motion he drew the pistol from his belt "—I kill them." He aimed at d'Artagnan and fired.

"NO!" Emris charged forward into the line of the shot. Even after the ball sank deep into his flesh, his momentum carried him forward. As he felt himself falling to the ground he extended his blade and impaled— Condé's thigh.

The man pushed the ex-musketeer's body away as he stumbled back, cursing loudly. Francois was just about to draw his blade to finish the matter, but Condé stopped him. "I had not meant to kill him. He had nerve to challenge me…I respected that. Leave de Batz alone. This duel is over," Condé told his second. Vendome shrugged and helped the wounded man into his saddle. "Keep the cursed blade." the rebel Prince called back over his shoulder. "It means nothing to me anyway."

D'Artagnan was struck speechless; tears streaked his cheeks as he sat in the grass.

Condé scoffed at the so called 'ledged' cradling his fallen comrade; he was just an old man--no further threat. The general ordered his soldiers to remount and they fell into ranks. Then all hell broke loose.

At exactly the same moment, all six of the company's powder wagons ignited in a horrific blast. Shrapnel tore into Condé's ranks and at least a dozen men were felled instantly…with far more being trampled by maddened horses. The general's horse was among those that bolted, taking the injured man with it. The remaining men of Condé's forces hastily galloped away, whether to protect themselves from the unseen attackers or in attempt to retrieve their commander. It didn't matter. The enemy had vacated the field.

Only then did d'Artagnan have the presence of mind to see to his friend's wounds. There were terrible powder burns from the Bourbon Prince's near point-plank shot. D'Artagnan tore the fabric of his friends ruined doublet to staunch the flow of blood and assess the damage. Charles felt heart would burst with relief when he realized the ball lodged in Aramis's shoulder rather than his chest and the wound was not as serious as it had seemed.

When the ex-musketeer's eyes fluttered open, a grinning d'Artagnan was the first sight his pain-fogged mind registered. "You idiot…you hopeless…noble…idiot; that bullet was meant for me!"

"I owed you one," Emris said hoarsely. "Help me up…we need to get out of here before they decide to come back."

Charles hastily tore his cape into strips to bind Emris's shoulder, lashing his arm tight to his side to help keep it immobilized. The injured man swayed unsteadily on his feet as he surveyed the smoking remains of the carriages. His vision blurred as he tried to process what he was seeing. Then he said, "All right boys…time to go."

And from beneath each smoking hulk emerged a soot smudged urchin. "Etienne you know. You may recall Porthos's nephew, Anton. Andy here is Protector's gal. These two troublemakers are Spring and Colt; they belong to the Chancellor. And this fine lad must be Marco." Emris smiled at the wan youth. "Nicely done lads…very nicely done."

"Getting shot was not in the plan, Uncle." Etienne scolded gently as he led the way to the place they had secreted the horses. Despite his injury, Emris insisted he could ride…but Charles hovered about, his mount never more than a few lengths away, in case the ex-musketeer should slip into unconsciousness again. The little twins were still too young to ride by themselves so they doubled up with the older boys.

Marco tentatively regained position of his family heirloom. Wrapping it in what was left of d'Artagnan's cape, he clutched the blade to his chest. "Are you all right?" Protector's daughter, Andy, asked the young Spaniard. The ex-slave only shrugged, undeniable sadness in his brown eyes.

"You'll be with your brother soon." The blond girl gave him a small smile and squeezed his arm in encouragement. "I'm sure everything will seem better then."

"M-master said he didn't care…said he wouldn't come." The boy shivered hugging the sword to his chest.

"Condé was a liar," Anton announced quietly, straight and to the point. Charles could not help but notice how much the big boy resembled his uncle—strong, \sensitive and soft-spoken, except when he wasn't.

"Ramon is a close friend of my son. Believe me when I tell you it nearly killed him not to come after you. If there was any other way he would have been here himself, but the king commanded that Aramis and I come, and that meant your brother had no choice but to stay and protect the king."

"M-my B-brother knows the king?" Marko asked, wide eyed.

"Yes lad; your brother is one of the four most trusted members of the king's musketeers, just like Aramis and I used to be."

"You called me Aramis." Emris smiled past the pain.

"Emris…Aramis, what's the difference." Charles shrugged offhandedly. But both men knew that there was a difference…had been for years. In all the time they had been in contention with one another, Charles had never once used the precious nickname of his youth.

"Thank you, d'Artagnan," Emris whispered.

D'Artagnan was a young idiot." De Batz smiled recalling all the times he had gotten Aramis and the others into some tight spot, all the mistakes he had made while trying to make a name for himself. "That is my son's name now you know. You can still call me Charles."

"I'd rather call you friend." Emris dared hope.

Charles sighed. "I suppose I'd answer to that too."


	13. Epilogue

Twelve- Epilogue

The Frondé of Princes was finally at an end and France was entering a new Era of peace and tranquility. The blade-bound had fulfilled the duty for which they had been created. That contract was at an end and it was with an open hand and a peaceful heart that Louis and Philippe released them to return to what lives they could make for themselves.

"We will be available if you need us," Chancellor Michael Pace told the young royals. He would have bowed, but was kept from doing so by the sleeping twins in his arms.

Louis and Philippe had been astonished to hear how the small boys had traveled halfway across the country as spies in the enemy's train. They seemed so peaceful now…innocent. But when one took into account the family's impressive bloodline, it was somewhat less surprising.

The chancellor, his warrior wife, Riviér, and the elder twins, Shoel and Torrent, had been invaluable during the day to day business of battle. It made sense that their progeny would be equally adept in matters of war. The young royals presented each with a medal of honor in thanks for what they had done. The family would be returning to the land and property that had once belonged to Richelieu. The Cardinal had entrusted the land to him as chancellor, but now it was his by right of royal writ as well. To be passed down to his sons and their sons…as was their right.

Protector, Chosen and the blackguard would be returning to Berry le Feré in another fortnight. Saying goodbye to Etienne, Anton and Ande would be heart-wrenching for the young royals who had become quite attached to the young rogues.

Aramis had been given his old room in the musketeer garrison and was still recovering from his wounds. Philippe had snuck in to see him on several occasions…only twice getting caught by Duval while he was en route to the kitchens.

It seemed that without trying, Louis and Philippe succeeded in getting the two legends back together again. Captain De Batz seemed more relaxed lately. He had visited the musketeer barracks at least twice in the past week. But the twins suspected Aramis' recovery wasn't the only reason he had to be chipper. Louis was sure that he saw the queen slip him a note of some kind after the award ceremony. And there had been a noticeable spring in his step ever since.

Ramon received special dispensation to have Marco stay with him in the barracks…though the boy was required to attend school and keep himself out of trouble. It was a bit awkward between the two brothers, who admittedly did not know each other at all. Siroc was helping in this respect, as he knew what it was like to be a slave. He was able to ease the boy into an…independent frame of thought.

Slowly, but surely, things settled down and the defenders of France came to enjoy the peace they had won.

But it wouldn't last. Neither Mazarin nor Condé were the type to stay quietly in exile. And when they returned, it would be up to the young musketeers to face the challenge.

-End for Now-


End file.
